


Offering

by badboy_fangirl



Series: The Defunct Freedom Universe [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 19:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboy_fangirl/pseuds/badboy_fangirl
Summary: This is another 'Michael's in jail so Linc and Sara have an affair' story--it's just that you can't read the whole rest of the story, because the original author deleted her account and all her stories. She was a friend of mine who let me write a couple pieces in her universe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The plot of the original piece is that while Michael's locked up, Linc and Sara have this torrid affair. After much drama between them (including an unplanned pregnancy), they go their separate ways. Lincoln eventually falls in love with Jane and Michael and Sara get back together when he gets out of jail. After a lot of drama, they work things out. The two pieces I wrote are some of my favorite things I ever wrote, simply because my author friend who let me dabble in her world was incredibly inspiring. This particular story follows Lincoln and Sara's first sexual encounter, when they gave in to the temptation after Michael sent all of Sara's letters back, trying to set her free. After, they try to pretend like it never happened. This story picks up there.

_I taste you on my lips_  
Every night I fantasize  
That I can feel you on my fingertips

~ _To Be With You_  by Jamie O’Neal

  
  
  
Sara Tancredi had done plenty in her life she was ashamed of. She and shame had a pretty tight relationship, as a matter of fact.  
  
Still, allowing Michael Scofield’s brother to fuck her on the kitchen table might have been a new low, even for her.  
  
But just to show that she had actually learned to bounce back from her mistakes, she was on her way to his house right now—Lincoln’s, not Michael’s, as Michael was in jail and not taking her mail anymore—to help Lincoln get ready for a date.  
  
That’s right, a date.  
  
With a woman.  
  
Which didn’t happen to be her.  
  
A woman he might have sex with, who wasn’t her. The way it should be. The way it should have been two months ago.  
  
Christmas had been especially hard with Michael in jail, but the discovery of every single one of the letters she had written to him while he was in prison sitting in a box in Lincoln’s spare room had sent her to a really bad place. And in that bad place, the best solution had been to beg Lincoln to fuck her. So she had, and he did. It had been something akin to an exorcism because ever since, she’d had a hard time dwelling on her misery over Michael; instead she’d lain awake many a night wondering how she could spend more time with Lincoln.  
  
Lincoln, however, had been good for one time only.  
  
Not that she’d asked, or anything. She could have because they’d seen each other even more than they had prior to the Christmas Incident. But Sara was pretty positive when he did manage to invite her over he did it when he was sure LJ would be there, awake, and very chaperone-y. The more she was invited over the more it seemed like it hadn’t happened at all.  
  
Except that it had.  
  
It would have been comical if it weren’t so torturous. Not only did Sara—sometimes!—want to do it again, she would have been somewhat relieved if they could have just talked about it, but Lincoln was definitely  _not_  interested in that.  
  
The few times LJ had left the room and she’d said something like, “Should we, maybe, I don’t know, like talk—or something?” Lincoln had looked at her as if he had no idea what she was referring to; usually he just didn’t respond until LJ came back in the room, and then he’d say something inane like, “Isn’t it fun when we invite Sara over, LJ?” and LJ would look at his father with a puzzled little grin, nodding in agreement.  
  
But again, men usually weren’t interested in rehashing emotional firestorms, and regardless of what she’d felt, she knew there had been an emotionality for Lincoln in those moments that they’d shared. And the Burrows/Scofield men—well, when they made up their minds about something, it was like Moses and his ten commandments. Sara had, in her mind, flung those precedents off the top of a mountain and watched them shatter into a thousand pieces many times, but in actuality, they were carved in stone, and they were unmovable, and she just had to accept them.  
  
So, a panicked phone call from LJ was what prompted her visit this particular, early evening at the end of February. “Dad has a date, and, you know, no  _class_!” LJ had all but shouted into her ear when she answered her cell phone in the grocery store. “Please come help me! Otherwise this will be his first and  _last_  date since he got exonerated!”  
  
Sara had giggled in the check out line, causing the two people in front of her to peer at her curiously. She loved these men, and everything about them amused her, touched her, or made her sob into her pillow at night. Lincoln and LJ were just an extension of Michael, and she knew that. She also knew seeking comfort in Lincoln’s arms was just a way of easing her longing for his brother, but knowing that changed nothing about the intensity of her desire.  
  
If getting Lincoln ready for a date was her only way of taking part in it, she would do it. Something was better than nothing, and unlike Michael, Lincoln at least let her still have some small part. If anything, she felt certain Lincoln couldn’t let go of what little relationship they had, even if he was determined not to have it cross an unseemly line, ever again.   
  
As she pulled up in front of their house, she looked at herself in the little mirror attached to her sun visor. As she flipped it back up, she realized she was concerned about how she looked to a man she would be preparing to romance another woman.  
  
In some ways it was the story of her life, always seeking love from men who would never give it.  
  


*

  
  
Lincoln put the tie on, and then he took it off. He stomped around his bedroom for a minute and then put the tie back on. Then he took it off again.  
  
When LJ appeared in the doorway—he’d chased him off twenty minutes earlier by bellowing about the fact that it was easier to figure out what to do with your hair when it was all shaved off—looking tentative, but happy.  
  
“What?” Lincoln asked, still fidgeting with the tie.  
  
“I called in reinforcements,” LJ said, and then he stepped aside and Sara appeared in the doorway next to him.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Lately that was all Lincoln could think about anyway. Fucking Sara. Repeatedly. With her skirt rucked up around her waist and her sweet little ass raised up towards him and—fuck.  
  
This was exactly why he’d managed to ask a woman out who he’d talked to for all of four minutes while waiting in line at the post office. He’d been mailing a care package to Michael, some books his brother had requested along with a couple bags of candy—things you took for granted on the outside.  
  
But if he could have bottled Sara up and sent her to his brother, he would have, to save himself the agony of temptation, but also to smack Michael over the head with the reality of how incredibly stupid he was not to cling to her with all his might.  
  
Of course, if he could bottle up the feeling, the intense and explosive reality of Sara Tancredi, admittedly, he’d be hard pressed to give it away. Because he wanted to keep it. Keep her. He wanted her, period. He wanted to fuck her face to face. He’d thought about that endlessly, how he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury that night against the kitchen table, but every time he imagined sinking inside her while looking into her brown eyes, he got so hard he could barely think, and generally two or three solid, sliding caresses of his own fist did him good. He’d been taking a lot of showers since Christmas.  
  
He should have been taking cold ones, but instead he’d jack off thinking about Sara under the hot water and then climb into bed feeling guilty about Michael being in prison. Because he knew. Michael loved Sara. Michael only did the stupid go-away-and-leave-me-alone thing because he loved Sara and in his twisted, fucked up head that was the loving thing to do, let her go.  
  
Let her move on.  
  
Logically, Lincoln knew that certainly did not mean with him. And not against the kitchen table where the not-completely-cooked turkey had been. And not again and again in his mind because he couldn’t really act on it. He couldn’t invite her into his bed and cup her face in his hands and sink deeply inside while she looked into his eyes. But sometimes he envisioned it as a way to help Sara and he even thought Michael would want her to be comforted, so it was like helping them both. Or all three of them really because Lincoln needed something to erase the pain of his brother being in jail while he was a free man. But he tried not to think about that very often.  
  
Except right now as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom and all those thoughts chased through his head like a tornado, ripping everything up and flinging it sideways.   
  
“LJ said you needed me,” she said, her lips curving into a smile. Then her face froze, and she said, “You need a woman’s opinion, actually.” She gave herself away so obviously, Lincoln’s eyes flinched to LJ and he wondered if he could see it as plainly as Lincoln could.  
  
God, he wanted her. And he knew she wanted some sort of closure to what had happened between them, but he couldn’t give it to her. He was simply incapable of saying,  _That won’t ever happen again, I swear, Sara_. So instead, he did everything he could to make sure it couldn’t happen again. If he was left to his own devices…well, they’d have been screwing six ways till Sunday for a couple of months now.  
  
When he said nothing, but just stared at her blankly, she said, “This is all wrong. Jeans and a tie? What the hell, Lincoln?” She moved to his closet and opened the sliding door.  
  
He looked down at the tie twisted in his hands. He’d thought the only problem was the tie. “I’m going for dressy casual,” he explained.  
  
“Wear a pair of Dockers,” she said, rifling through his closet. “Your beige ones, or the green ones. And your purple button up—ah, here it is,” she said, pulling the shirt from the hanger. “Then use that brown corduroy jacket over it, no tie. You’ll look classy instead of like a cowboy. Come on. You’re from Chicago, not Dallas.”  
  
She walked over to him and handed him the button up shirt. He didn’t do on purpose—at least he didn’t think he had—but his fingers closed around hers very briefly as he took the clothing out of her hand. Their eyes collided and he could feel her, could taste her, could barely remember all the reasons why he only thought about these things when he was alone. “Thank you, Sara,” LJ said, a little too gleefully for Lincoln’s taste.  
  
Lincoln pried his gaze away from hers to give LJ the finger, grateful that his son managed to keep him in reality, at least most of the time. “Get out of here, both of you. I won’t strip down in front of your critical eyes.”  
  
Sara’s ‘critical’ eyes swooped down his body, and he blushed like a schoolgirl. He turned away from her as she scurried back out the bedroom door. As it shut behind them, Lincoln heard LJ thanking Sara more profusely for “saving me from the embarrassment that is my father.”  
  
Changing quickly into his beige trousers and the purple shirt, Lincoln examined himself in the full-length mirror on his bathroom door. He had to admit he looked a lot better in what Sara picked out than the outfit he’d put together by himself. But as he slipped on his jacket, he wished he could just stay here with her and LJ. Well, really just with her. If he could figure out a way to get rid of LJ for a few hours he might just let it happen again.   
  
Of course, if he gave Sara an opportune moment, she’d just want to officially say it wasn’t ever going to happen again. But maybe he could change her mind.  
  
Glowering at his reflection, he berated himself while he straightened the cuffs of his shirt. Maybe he ought to remember he was going on a date with a woman he’d met at the post office while he was mailing  _Michael_  a care package. Maybe he ought to remember that Sara had only had sex with him because  _Michael_ —the stupid bastard—broke her heart.  
  
Maybe he ought to stop having fantasies about a woman whose only interest in him spurred from a pile of letters that now sat in the attic portion of his house, out of sight, but not out of mind.  
  
The chastisement effectively made him feel guilty. It didn’t, however, change the fact that the only woman he wanted to spend the evening with was the one he’d never have.   
  


*

  
  
Sara and LJ had retired to the kitchen so he could get her a glass of juice while they waited for Lincoln to make his appearance downstairs. “So,” Sara asked casually. “Who’s this first—and hopefully not last—date with?”  
  
LJ’s face exploded into a grin, as though the idea of Lincoln going on a date were like LJ himself having one. “This chick he met at the post office yesterday. Her name is Chantal. Nice, huh?” LJ winked, and in that moment he looked so much like his father Sara nearly choked on her apple juice.  
  
She leaned negligently against the kitchen table until Lincoln came down the stairs and stood in the hall between the kitchen and the living room staring at her. Then she backed away from the table like it might explode. A funny thing had happened since their encounter on that torturous Christmas Day two months earlier. Sara had suddenly been made aware of how fucking hot Lincoln was. Before that, she’d thought he was handsome. You know, the way any little sister might look at her older brother. The way any  _normal_  little sister did, anyway. Because she definitely didn’t think sisterly thoughts when she looked at him now, and he looked fantastic in the clothes she’d suggested. He’d grown a goatee over the last two months, and it was surprisingly attractive to her as well because she’d never really been into facial hair, but Lincoln’s facial hair seemed to promote his mouth in the most X-rated sort of way. Maybe it was just Sara, but she had a feeling if the girl from the post office agreed to a date based on only a first meeting, there must be something to it.  
  
“How do I look?” Lincoln asked, lifting his arms slightly to indicate the ensemble.  
  
Oh yeah, and his voice. Pure sex. That was another thing Sara had never noticed until he’d growled the words  _bend over_ right against her earlobe. Now, the words didn’t matter, or even how he said them, just his voice was enough to cause prickly heat sensations in various places on her body. “Great,” she spluttered, taking another drink of apple juice. “Just great. Though you might be cold without a heavy coat,” she added. She hadn’t considered the snowy, February weather when she had dressed him.  
  
He shook his head dismissively. “I never get cold,” he said, turning his eyes to LJ. “Do you approve?” he asked tartly.  
  
“It’s nice, Dad. See? You can thank me after you get laid,” LJ said cheekily and this time Sara did choke, hard, and she coughed until tears ran down her cheeks.  
  
LJ grabbed her left arm and dragged it up over her head, awkwardly, since she was taller than him and she also had no idea what the hell he was doing, so she was uncooperative. “Put your arm up,” he instructed. “It clears your airway.”  
  
Sara continued to cough and then she jerked her arm out of his grasp. “No, it doesn’t,” she wheezed nastily, though no one could make out the scorn in her tone because of the raspiness of it.  
  
“Always works for me, doesn’t it, Dad?” LJ asked, stepping back and looking over at Lincoln.   
  
Sara’s eyes followed the path to LJ’s father somewhat unwillingly. Lincoln’s face held a combination of concern and consternation, but he hadn’t moved from the doorway of the kitchen either. “Yeah, ah, yeah, it always works, yeah.”  
  
When he took a hesitant step forward, Sara was propelled into action. She moved to the sink and dumped what was left of her juice before setting the glass on the counter. Clearing her throat, she announced, “Well, my work here is done, so I should get on home.”  
  
“No!” LJ cried, causing both Lincoln and Sara to look at him. With a sheepish expression, he went on, “Well, I just thought—since Dad’s going out, you know, you could hang here with me. Watch a movie or something.”  
  
Sara’s heart crumbled, and the tears stinging her eyes now were not in reaction to her coughing fit. “Really?” she asked.  
  
“Yeah, why not?” LJ asked. “You want to?”  
  
Sara studiously didn’t look at Lincoln. “I’d love to, LJ,” she said, never more sincere.  
  
“Cool!” LJ turned back to his father, who was still far across the kitchen from them. “Don’t you have a hot date? Get outta here!”  
  


*

  
  
Fifteen minutes into dinner, Chantal had to snap her fingers in front of Lincoln’s face to bring his attention back to her.  
  
It was pretty much down hill from there.  
  
As he escorted her back to her car (they had met outside the restaurant) she stiffly shook his hand and though he actually tried to apologize for his distracted state, she jerked her car door open and pointed a finger at him. “Whoever she is, I suggest you get her out of your system before you go out with someone else.”  
  
She drove away, leaving Lincoln in the freezing cold, burning up for Sara. In the nice Italian restaurant it had occurred to him what he wanted. What he wanted to  _say_  to Sara, what he wanted to  _do_  to Sara, the stark reality of it so painful he’d clenched his fists into the white linen tablecloth and the contents of the table had shifted five inches towards him.  
  
Less than two hours had passed since he’d left home, but he returned with the hope that Sara might still be there. He would have to bite a hole through his tongue not to blurt out what he thought, but maybe LJ would eventually go to bed, and they’d be left alone, like they had on Christmas Day night.  
  
He came in through the kitchen, having parked his car in the garage. Sara’s car was still out front, but LJ’s was missing from the driveway. It struck him as strange, but then he considered that maybe they’d gone to rent something, though that seemed odd too.  
  
When he saw her she was shrugging into her jacket, standing next to the coat hooks by the front door. Steven Tyler blared from the TV, singing about how he wasn’t going to close his eyes and miss a thing as the credits rolled on one of LJ’s favorite movies,  _Armageddon_. Sara walked back to the sofa, picked up the remote and switched off the television, plunging the house into silence.  
  
“Sara?”  
  
She jumped and the remote clattered against the wood floor after it fell from her hand. She looked up at him, gasping, but smiling shakily. “You scared me!”  
  
“Sorry,” he muttered. Glancing around, he asked, “Where’s LJ?”  
  
Leaning down, Sara rescued the remote from the floor and tossed it back on the couch. “He got a call. From a girl. He ditched me,” she said, another smile whizzing across her face.  
  
“That little turd,” Lincoln said meanly. “He invited you to stay, he should have—“  
  
Sara held up a hand. “No. Really, I had to twist his arm to get him to go. But who could blame him? He should be with girls his own age.”  
  
“Was it Jessica?”  
  
“Yes,” Sara affirmed.  
  
Lincoln nodded, a small grin easing on to his face. “He’s been trying to tap that for a while now. If you really had to convince him to go, you ought to feel damn special.”  
  
Sara looked away from him. “Yeah, special,” she said softly. Then her eyes shifted back quizzically. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you looking to ‘tap’ something?”  
  
The question was good-natured. No malice or derision wafted to him from her tone, but the self-control it took for Lincoln not to graphically tell her what he wanted to tap felt Herculean on his part. The smile faded off her face when he said nothing and she moved back towards the front door. “I just went ahead and finished the movie. I figured you wouldn’t be home for a while.”  
  
“It’s no big deal,” he said gruffly.  
  
“No, I know,” she responded, but her voice was small and it didn’t sound like she really knew it.  
  
“Sara…”  
  
“I was just leaving.” Her hand grabbed the doorknob.  
  
“Sara…”  
  
“I’ll see you—“  
  
Then he was there, and he said her name again while he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm and pulled her to face him.  
  
She looked up, her brown eyes full of warmth and fear. She didn’t say anything, but he felt as though she moved right through him and their beating hearts synchronized.  
  
With one hand he cupped her face, pressing her against the door in the process. “I want to make love to you,” he announced. Her eyes widened infinitesimally and he continued, “Not a hard, fast fuck against the kitchen table, but long and slow and hot in my bed. That’s what I want.”  
  
Sara’s eyes agreed, but her mouth only said, “Not here. LJ…” She shook her head, indicating what Lincoln also felt—that he didn’t want his son to know about it. “There’s a Days Inn about two miles from here.”  
  
Lincoln’s cock rose, hard and urgent, at the unmistakable invitation in that sentence. Leaning his face down to hers, he kissed her slowly, deeply, wetly. When he lifted his lips from hers, he said, “I’ll follow you.”  
  


*

  
  
He had not been kidding.  
  
That’s what went through Sara’s mind as she lay tucked into Lincoln’s body, pleasantly lethargic. He had long since gone to sleep, but he held her as tightly as she wanted to be held, without her even asking him to do it.  
  
In her brief relationship with Michael, she’d anticipated him to be like this, intense, thorough, maybe even a little clingy. She’d imagined that making love with Michael would have been exactly like this.  
  
Lincoln had just proven that either he and Michael shared many attributes, or for whatever reason, he’d needed those same things just as desperately as Sara had. For all the awkwardness and embarrassment that had followed the Christmas Incident—her pulling her skirt down and barely making eye contact with him, and even walking out of the house with the wet essence of him still vividly pooled between her legs—this had been just the opposite. He had adored every inch of her, with his mouth and his hands, and he’d made her come twice before he even entered her. He’d used the same mind-blowing technique as that first time, but with slow flicks of his tongue he’d shown her that the fly-by version she’d gotten against the kitchen table had not been his best work.  
  
When Lincoln Burrows made love, he  _made love_. When he made love, he intended there to be only two people in the room, and it wasn’t until in the quiet aftermath of his gentle, methodic breathing that she thought about Michael. Christmas had been about fucking Michael right out of the picture. Today—February 27 that had just slipped into February 28—had been about Lincoln and Sara.  
  
His hands had joined under her chin, tipping her head back slightly until her neck arched just so. Then he’d stared into her eyes, the deep blue of his irises looking almost black in the dim light of the motel room lamp, while he moved inside her. The only time their gazes had broken apart was when Sara got so close to orgasm she couldn’t think to keep her eyes open. Then his voice, deep and husky over her, had commanded, “Look at me,” and with all the strength she could muster, she forced her eyelids up and let him see her fall apart under him for the third time in less than an hour.  
  
She still wasn’t sure if it had been the deep, internal strokes that he had relentlessly spaced just far enough apart that she teetered on the verge for an infinite length of time or just the sound of his voice that pushed her over, but when she finally came, he had let go with a ferocity that made her flush all over just remembering it. The way he moved and the rate of his thrusts had increased dramatically, bringing his own orgasm scorching through both of them until Sara felt tears slide down her temples into her hair. He had collapsed on top of her and she had held him as tightly as she could, her arms and legs wrapped around him so he was cocooned to her, unable to move away in shame or remembrance of his brother.  
  
And he hadn’t. Several minutes later, when he did start to move and she’d objected by a whimper in her throat, he’d whispered in her ear, “I’m gonna fall asleep, and you don’t want to be under me for that, trust me.” Then he pulled out, moved to her left side, and pushed her up so he could slide his body in right behind hers. His arms wrapped around her, one under her neck, his biceps cushioning her, and the other around her torso. The ease of it made more tears sting her eyes, and as she listened to his deep, heavy breaths, she thought perhaps the wrong brother might be as right as she could ever hope to get.


End file.
